


Chess and Theatre

by ballpoint



Category: Marvel 616, X-Men
Genre: F/M, The Dark Phoenix Saga, X-Men: Evolution - Freeform, remix fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 07:57:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean wakes up from her slumber and remembers things. Emma doesn't care. Another chapter of their mutual ambivalence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chess and Theatre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seriousfic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seriousfic/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Only A Sin If You Enjoy It](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/2960) by seriousfic. 



Jean's eyelids slowly creaked open, the form before her hazy and blurred, a smear on her vision. The voice distant and static, like a faint radio signal. _Scott,_ she thought. _Oh, Scott_

Light, so bright, Jean closed her eyes against its glare.

 _Where am I?_ a tentative question, but she cradled her head with her hands, wondering why the words were so loud. She tried to will her pain away, calling up images that Professor X taught her when voices from other minds got too intrusive, too _much_. A sheet of ice, distant with cold vapours rolling over its surface, nothing but white, with tinges of blue and grey.

 _

"Our Black Queen," the glint in Wyndgarde's eyes as his fingers stroked and skimmed her chin, the tips of his fingers dancing down the line of her neck, across her clavicle to the swell of her breast. His eyes, all knowing, his touch snapped the bands of restraint from her. "A delightful counterpart to the white, yes?"

_

 _In the shadows, Emma Frost glowed; from hair to eyes to her suit, all starkly white and beautiful, a wink of light and curves in a roomful of men. As brilliant as the diamonds men wooed her with, her face a mask of mild boredom._

And Jean remembered, the dig of the toe of a boot in her side, allowing images to cascade in front of her eyes. Moaning, she turned over, and shifted her body away from the touch.

"A first for Jean Grey, prostrate at my feet. Such a good look, darling."

The white boots, with their stiletto heels and matching white laces. Jean followed their lines, and they were like an arrow, pointing all the way up. From her vantage point, flat on the... floor? Emma's boots came into view, then columns of pale, firm thighs, and the seat of the merry widow she wore. Her face seemed so far away, the fall of her hair, the ends of her hair cut as sharp as her cheekbones. But no matter how far away Emma seemed to be, Jean could still feel her sneer.

"I- I-" Jean shook her head, tried to push herself up with her hands, her body shaky and weak with the effort. Once she was up, she realised that her surroundings were all white, and empty. When she, when they- ?

"The Hellfire Club?" Emma interrupted her thoughts, as she turned on her heel, the edge of her cloak slapped Jean's face as she walked away, stopped and turned around slowly, brighter than the room they were in.

The Hellfire Club. They had been there, Jean remembered the fire crackling in the hearth, how it mimicked the heat that flamed and crackled under her skin as Wyndgarde presented her to the others, and bade her to do his will. The shadows flickered and played across the other's faces: Shaw, Pierce, Leyland, Frost. She recognised the look in the members' eyes; their envy, their _hunger_ , just like how Wolver- Logan did, when he thought everyone had looked away from him. His stare a brand on her senses, as hot as the cherry red end of his cigar.

Jason's voice a humid caress at her ear and her nape, her hair swept up into a creation of pins and curls and intricately styled. "Show them, my Queen," he ordered, and Jean lifted her eyes to his, knowing that she would see the heat and kindness there. "Your power."

"Of course, my lord," Jean lowered her lashes, spread her arms, feeling the uncurling of the base of energy from her spine. The ancients had names for it, Professor X said. _All energy, a force so strong, so heady, it calls for great discipline to tamper to focus. But in good time, my dear. You'll discover it in good time and we will deal with it then._

Then was now, and it spread and glow within her, pushed herself out from the shell of her body. A song of dark power, of edgy sensuality. The raw edges she felt when Logan's eyes skimmed her frame, when Scott's lips pressed against hers, with that bit of passion at the edges, that she wanted to coax into the centre, only for his restraint to deny her, to deny them both. Only Wyndgarde gave her permission to do this. _My lord, my love, my mast-_

Jean remembered, the flame in the hearth, suddenly flared and bloomed, as if fuelled by a gust of oxygen. The heat and awareness of such power roiling through her like a tempest, fed by the look in Jason's eyes, the blessing of his mouth, his touch. Her mind easing free from the confines of her body, as she took the rest of the men's consciousness with her, and proceeded to show them the universe.

A blast that made the floor roll and the walls of the room rock. Pain as sharp as claws raked through her astral form, and she screamed, then darkness.

"Where's my body?" Jean asked, trying to keep her voice steady, but failed.

"Ah," Emma idly buffed her nails against the bare skin of her thigh, before stretching out her fingers and idly looking at her manicure. "Wyndgarde ordered you to perform for him, and you did, like the good little lap bitch that you are. Your body got torn away from your mind, like wine from a smashed bottle. I've contained you here-" Emma gestured languidly at their blank, vague surroundings.

"For what purpose?" Jean shifted, and with a great effort; one that sent her muscles trembling with the exertion, she pulled her legs up and under her.

"You need to recover."

"As if you care."

"You're right, I don't." Emma's mouth twitched with amusement, and Jean tried to call up whatever vestiges of power she had, the co ordination of thought and psionic punches, but nothing. "But your team mates do. Since I was the only one with some semblance of telepathic powers at the time, I'm the only one who knows your astral co ordinates. Your darling Professor X and Betsy Braddock could _try_ but only arrive at a variable approximate."

"I-" Jean flushed, as she hugged her frame with her hands. Flinching even more when she realised that she was still clad in her Black Queen garb, the daring cut of her Basque, panties, black thigh high boots. "I won't do what you might ask me to, what Wyndgarde tried to make me do."

Emma dropped to her knees, a graceful movement with straightened back, and her heels tucked under her haunches, her cloak a sheet of modesty over her suit and limbs.

"Oh, Jean," Emma tsked in a husky, scolding tone. "Wyndgarde couldn't make you do what you didn't want to do. Your gifts are impressive, though dulled from vapid underachievement. Your mind wonderfully supple- and even if he hadn't perished, Jason was already ruined. You made him see everything- and the poor dear couldn't comprehend."

"But you can?"

Emma's mouth formed a perfect _moue_ of thought, and Jean tried to reach forth and read her mind, only to find nothing there, but a mental concoction of a sitting room parlour, with foolishly curved chairs and a silver tea service on the table.

"As much as it might surprise you, you don't concern me, Jean. You never have."

"So, why am I here?"

"Wyndgarde wanted to make you Black Queen," Emma sighed as she pushed herself to her feet, continued as if Jean had remained silent. "When your mindset is one of a pawn - ordered to move from square to square at any man's beckoning," -a windy sigh, before she continued; "It's _never_ been about you, Jean. Pardon me for a moment, I have -negotiations to be getting on with."

Another gesture, and it was as if Emma flicked a switch, and suddenly, the blank wall had the stark resolution of a movie screen, as she vanished from Jean's immediate vicinity and switched all her energies to the adjoining plane.

Ororo stood, arms folded, her face set into hard lines. Scott sat there, resolute, his mouth firmed into what she knew as refusal, and there was Logan, off to the side, leaning against a - wall? No, it was just another astral level, and Emma sat there, behind the desk, her suit almost obscene with the amount of flesh that it showed; swelling cleavage, bare shoulders.

 _"It's simple, if you want Jean back, I want something in return." Emma's voice, low and husky with a hint of smoke around its edges, reverberated in the room. "Scott, to be exact."_

A gasp escaped from Jean's lips. "How- no, no, _no_ , stop it now."

 _Not permanently of course, only for one night_

"No," Jean struggled to get upright, threw herself against the wall, only for the shudders to go through her mind, her fingers slipping from its surface, similar to the texture of Peter's skin, when it hardened into the steel form of Colossus.

If was if she were watching an old silent movie, no sounds coming out and she couldn't read lips. Nor could she throw her power and see what was going on. Scott's mouth opened in a shout, his brow furrowed, Ororo reached over, her fingers against his arm, as she urged calm.

Other motions, and Emma sat there, her eyes bored, her features mildly polite.

"No, Scott. Don't do it." Jean wiped at her nose, before banging at the surface again. "Please, don't... not with her."

A nod, and the voices filtered back into her stream of consciousness, Scott's face telling his resigned manner and naked disgust before his words did. _"I'll do it_.

***

"Why?"

"Hmm?" Emma fluffed her hair.

"Why Scott?" Jean asked, as she drew her knees to her chest, and hugged them with her arms. They were still in the space - nothing but white - bright and unyielding. No shades, no shadows, just a stark sheet of white across her vision, and Jean closed her eyes against it for a second, before opening them again.

"Why not?" Emma grasped a shock of her hair, held it between her thumb and forefinger, as if she were hunting for split ends. She stood a fair distance from Jean, looking out in the distance, seeing things that Jean couldn't.

Jean gathered all the loathing and insolence she had, and distilled it into her stare. Normally, it would have withered even the most hardened characters - like Logan- but Emma only ran her hand through her hair, fingers splayed as she combed through the strands.

"Because you're jealous?"

Emma laughed. If they had ever been more than adversaries, Jean might have confessed that Emma had a good laugh; light but not girlish. Amused, but infused with warmth instead of brittleness. A total contrast to the _nun ich ein Blondchen_ air she steadily cultivated.

"Oh goodness, _no_ ," Emma touched her chest with her fingers, her laughter a delicate riff of music. "Oh no, I do it because I can, because I _want_ to. Why have all this power and not use it? Why arrange pieces on a board if you have no wish to play?"

"He won't, you know."

"You don't know men... like I do."

"You don't know Scott... like I do."

"Well," Emma raised a pale, beautifully arched eyebrow. "I will, after tonight. Look at the time. I must dash, don't wait up."

Emma disappeared, leaving Jean all alone, a small speck in an ocean of white.

***

Jean tried not to think about it; about what Scott and Emma were up to.

Jean knew of Emma; long before Emma Frost showed herself to be a powerful mutant, she was already an established presence on the New York social scene. "A cool and alluring import from Boston," the papers cooed. Her image caught in the glare and flash of cameras, her low, languid tones picked up by the microphones, men and women alike riveted by her beauty and manner. Of course Scott would notice Emma's beauty - he wasn't blind. Her limbs perfect and firm as if they were carved from pale marble, her eyes cool and glass blue, but they could be warmed by laughter, Jean saw that today.

They'd- what would Emma make them do?

A creature of comfort, Emma liked her hotels. The Ritz Carlton, or The Plaza on Fifth. Emma done up in her signature white silks, the curve of her bare shoulders tempting, like the segment of an orange on a scorcher of a day.

 _Scott's mouth brushes her shoulder, tentative, in that way he does when asking for permission. Emma turns to him, her face in shadows; the icy white-blonde colouring of hers now nothing but warmer tones of silver and blue. They are in a hotel room. Beautiful, the furniture and flowers arranged just so. Not white, not in the dim light, the noise and roar of New York a world away._

 _Emma already shrugging out of her clothing, her dress slowly inching from her body, catching on the hardened points of her nipples, before letting go, and dropping away. The smooth line of her stomach, nothing but the fine silk that covered her sex._

 _"Mine," Emma says, and it's not a smile misty with love, but the calculating lines of a grin._

Jean closed her eyes, as she curled into herself even more. _Scott. Please_.

"Jean?"

She didn't want to open her eyes. The voice in her ears, her yearnings made real. Suddenly, she felt so warm, a burst of life in her veins, as if dragged from freezing cold and dumped into a warm bath. Her cheeks heated, her skin pinked. She opened her eyes. She blinked, feeling the _pain_ in her irises as they dilated from pinpricks, as they grew accustomed to the gently light shadows in the lobby. _Where-?_

Right in front of her, a face that she knew as well as her own. The ruffle and sweep of his hair, her reflection dancing on the surface of his ruby quartz glasses. After the wanderings of her with Wyndgarde, the Inner Circle, this was home. Something heavy fell across her shoulders, as substantial as a hug. Jean wanted to say everything, anything, but the only thing that came to her lips was, "Scott, I-"

She licked her lips, surprised to feel sensation, to taste the salt and air of the lobby. To smell the faint sweetness of beeswax that made the little tables in the lobby shine. After all that time spent in the garb of the Black Queen, the T-shirt and jeans felt welcome, as if her body were encased in some sort of soft armour. "I had a bad dream," she said, and she did.

"Yeah, me too." Scott said, touching his forehead to hers.

They bundled into a taxi, Jean snuggled against his chest, as Scott's voice boomed around her. Steady and calm, his heartbeat in her ears, the scent of him in her nostrils, grounding her, loving her, Jean stepped right back onto the white nothingness of the telepathic plane. Not surprised to see Emma there, seated in front of a vanity, brushing her hair, glancing at her reflection.

Jean smiled at her reflection, she was back in her original costume, but with a twist; the classic green replaced by a deep, blood red and gold.

"Came back to gloat, Jean?" Emma moved the brush through her hair. "How disappointing."

"No," Jean shook her head. "I came to tell you that this is it. We're done here."

"I should've lobotomised you."

"You couldn't," Jean smiled, and it matched Emma's for coldness. " _What is power if you can't use it?_ Remember? I'm going to assume that if you could've, you would've."

Emma didn't say a word.

"But your trick kept my mind whole, my focusing on you and Scott - _together_ \- kept my form until I got strong enough to go back into my body. I thank you for that. In addition, you're now head of the Hellfire Club, and can build your own Inner Circle. You're welcome, considering."

"Considering?"

"You had a hand in the whole scheme, tapping into my mind and trying to _use_ me."

"Always a drama queen, Jean. Please stop darling, it's all a bit tiresome." Emma made her eyes bored, and her voice had the tones of long suffering.

"We're even. The next move, I'll leave up to you. Oh, please don't stand on my account, Emma _darling_ , I'll see myself out."

Jean disappeared.

Emma sighed, as her consciousness slipped into her body, anchored into her physical frame with a click. She came to, her limbs sprawled against the bedclothes. Her eyes covered by the silk sash, giving her blessed darkness, her body still clad in her Basque and knickers. Fernando's mouth half moving up to her thigh, the bristles of his whiskers sensitising tender flesh. Monique's hands stroked her hair and her face. "Are you well, mistress Emma?"

"I'm getting there," Emma placed her fingers against Monique's lips. "No need to speak, hmm?" Monique understood, and as her lips brushed along Emma's neck and jaw, augmented with the odd scrape of teeth against flesh, Emma turned herself over to her bed partners' ministrations.

There was no need to put oneself out of sorts, Emma knew. After all, there would be other games.

Fin.


End file.
